The Queen's Lady. Shannon Drake
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in the courtyard as Queen Mary and her noble entourage arrived, activity tempered by awe as the household staff awaited a greeting from their queen and mistress. Mary did not fail them. Once again, Rowan had to admire her charisma and character, for she remained every inch a queen while offering courtesy and even affection. Lord James took charge of his half sister, leaving the others of lesser station to discover their quarters for themselves, leading to a state of some confusion. He heard several among the French escort muttering with relief that the palace seemed to offer surprisingly comfortable accommodation, while clearly lamenting the lack of art, music and poetry in this sadly uncultured land.
“Rowan?”
He heard his name familiarly spoken and turned. Laird James Stewart was at his sister’s side, glancing Rowan’s way in question. Rowan nodded, aware that the northwest tower had been chosen for the establishment of the royal apartments, and that his help was being requested.
“Ladies of the court, if you will…” he suggested.
With a nod to one of the housekeepers, he led Mary’s ladies toward their apartments. There was a great deal of tittering and whispering in French as he walked ahead. He shook his head, amazed that they weren’t knowledgeable enough to realize that many Scottish nobles were well-versed in the language. He was well aware that they were discussing his attire and his derriere, and speculating as to what might lie beneath the wool of his kilt.
He chafed a bit at their company, his interest lying far more in the manner with which Mary conducted herself with both staff and statesmen. He was unsure whether even James was aware of these first hours as the queen was duly greeted and settled in Holyrood.
As he showed the ladies the magnificence of the palace, and pointed out where the queen’s quarters, as well as their own, would be, the Marys flirted with him. They were lovely and charming, cheerful and full of life—and yet, he knew, as chaste as their young mistress now was in her widowhood. One day these ladies would marry well, with the approval of their families, but for now they simply longed to have fun, as was natural at their age. He did his best to be gallant to them in turn.
There was, however, one among their group who did not laugh and certainly did not flirt. She simply followed and listened in silence. The Lady Gwenyth.
He knew she was watching him, and he had to secretly smile at that knowledge, even though he knew she was wary, that she did not trust him. He was quite certain she did not give a damn what might lie beneath his kilt. She disliked him intensely—or thought she did.
“Are you happy with your situation?” he asked her at last, having shown the women the way to their chambers. “Will you be able to discover your way?” The hallways were long, the layout complicated, though certainly nothing when compared with some of the grander palaces of France. Still, they were arriving in a new home and might feel some confusion.
“I believe we can manage just fine on our own,” she assured him.
He had noticed that she seemed to hold herself slightly apart from the other women, which was, perhaps, natural. She hadn’t left Scotland as a child, as so many sons and daughters of Scotland had, the bonds with France having been long established. Many noble sons of Scotland attended school in France. Trade between the two countries flourished.
She stared at him now through narrowed eyes, her expression deeply distrustful. And yet so beautiful, as well, he could not help but think. She was well-spoken, certainly well-read and, despite her words, he believed that she shared his concerns for the queen’s safety. At the same time, despite her intelligence and dagger-sharp wit, there was an air of naiveté about her.
He stepped away from her now, nodding curtly in acknowledgment of what amounted to a dismissal. Striding the length of the hall, anxious to return to James and the new queen, he found himself pausing to look out a window.
From his vantage point, he could see the great stone edifice of Edinburgh Castle. The sky was as gray as the castle’s stone, the recent weather having been wet and cold, and mist, a common enough occurrence, had settled around the stark battlements. There was a tinge of mauve in the gray, lovely to one who knew this as home. Foreboding, perhaps, for those accustomed to blue skies. He shifted his gaze to the Royal Mile, a fine thoroughfare offering shops that sold goods from around the world. Holyrood was a fine palace, Edinburgh a fine city. Surely the queen would find much to love here and in her people, people who had cheered for her arrival.
Perhaps he was being too defensive, worrying for naught. And yet…He knew that many members of Queen Mary’s French escort mocked this land. It was cold, they said. Hard, like the unyielding, rugged rock of Edinburgh Castle. French shops were finer, French palaces far more beautiful—even if French laborers had worked on Holyrood.
Rowan forced himself to look on his city as others might see it. In the gray, foreboding day, the castle rose like a bleak and terrible fortress. The people themselves were as rough and hard.
Rock versus marble. Wool versus silk.
He gritted his teeth. They simply needed time. Time would bring the changes the young queen and her entourage needed.
The ties Scotland had shared with France were long-lived and strong. And yet….
No alliance was founded purely on friendship. Both the Scots and the French had fought the English, and that shared enmity had made them allies, even friends. But friendship was so often only on the surface, easily broken when more selfish needs intruded. And therein lay the dilemma.
What really simmered beneath the deeper waters of that alliance now that the French-raised queen had come home?
CHAPTER TWO
“I AM EXHAUSTED,” MARY sighed, throwing herself onto the bed in her chamber. She stared up at the ceiling and laughed softly, sounding for a moment like any young woman. “Actually, this is quite lovely,” she said, surveying the room. She rolled to stare at Gwenyth, who was standing nearby. “It is, isn’t it?” she whispered, and Gwenyth knew she was missing France.
“It is magnificent,” Gwenyth assured her.
Mary leaned back on the bed again. “Crowns,” she murmured. “They do weigh heavily.”
“My queen—” Gwenyth began.
Mary rose to a sitting position, shaking her head. “For now, I beg of you, please drop the formality. We are alone, and I must trust in you. You’ve not been gone so long from here, and you’re not after any reward, nor testing me, weighing me. Use my given name, as if we were nothing more than a pair of friends. For you truly are my friend, and that is what I need now.”
“Mary, I believe your arrival here was a complete success. Your people are delighted to have their young and beautiful queen returned.”
She shook her head. “These people seem so forbidding”
“They’re…” Gwenyth paused, not sure what to say. She shrugged. “They’re forbidding,” she agreed. She hesitated, then went on. “It’s due to John Knox and the way they have embraced their church.”
“Right. They can’t follow the English, heaven forbid, but they don’t want to believe in the old religion, either, so they must have their own church.” She sighed, then patted the side of the richly canopied bed to urge Gwenyth to join her. As soon as Gwenyth sat down, Mary gave her a fierce hug. “It’s cold here, have you felt it?”
“There’s a lovely fire burning,” Gwenyth said.
“You’re right. And it will be warming soon. This is so strange a place, though. In France, while my husband lived, there was such a marvelous sense of security in being queen. And here…it is as if I am being tested because I am queen.”
“You must remember, your half brother, Lord James, has been the power behind the throne since the death of your mother. Time has passed, and things have changed. But now, both lords and churchmen have gathered to welcome you home. You must remember that. Everything is going to be wonderful.”
“Is